


Insomnia

by jendavis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, Plot What Plot, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> esteefee wanted insomniac sparring smut; I think I just wanted an excuse...

Ronon didn't know what had woken him, but something was digging into the hollow of his throat- the wraith claw poking just into the skin. Ronon wondered if tonight was going to be the night he gave in and removed it, if he'd shove it underneath his pillow with his knife, or on the bedside table next to his blaster, where he'd be less likely to forget it. 

The decision could wait until morning, or some other night, he decided, shifting the leather cord out of the way as he rolled onto his back. He could see the glow of his blaster's charge pack out of the corner of his eye, and just barely make out the numbers of the clock Weir had insisted on giving him at the end of his first year here. It was 03:12, and enough of Atlantis's lights were seeping through the windows to show him exactly how small his room was. The cramped barracks on Sateda hadn't bothered him; the claustrophobia was more recent, and had more to do with the quiet, here, than anything. He could hear the waves, just barely if he paid attention. If he were to open the window, their steady, unrelenting noise would roar in on a burst of air too cold to be comfortable for long. 

It wouldn't replace the sounds of birds and wind rustling the trees- there were neither, here, but it would probably take more than a year and a half to break the habits learned in seven- but there were _people_ , somewhere. If he went out to walk the halls, he'd hear them snoring through their doors, or working in the control room, or up too late in the rec areas and taking advantage of their first night off rotation. 

He could seek them out, if he wanted, but even though the insomnia had returned in full force, he didn't have the energy for talking, for making halfhearted promises to drop in on Cadman's poker game, which was mostly attended by women. She'd become insistent enough, over the past few days, that the ulterior motive had become glaringly obvious, as was the fact that she'd been making the overture on someone else's behalf. 

Once, he would've been curious enough to at least show up, possibly after convincing Teyla to come along. Doing otherwise would mean having to pay attention to the careful words and roundabout references to something a half dozen well-armed women should've been able to say plainly, and respond in a way that wouldn't insult or embarrass anyone, and make it clear that he wasn't looking for that sort of companionship. Besides, if the conversation reached that point, it would slide too easily into the the territory John hadn't needed to warn him about. The one time they'd talked about it, he'd cited regulations and used terms like "the appearance of impropriety," and all he'd really meant was "this is ours." 

Ronon didn't have a lot of things that were just _his_ , even fewer that he shared; he'd probably been just as greedy as John, though _greedy_ wasn't a word that really fit him. John didn't push, take or assume, didn't expect anything. Even last night, when he'd let himself into Ronon's room, that had been all the presumption he'd carried. He'd asked, like usual, if he'd been interrupting anything.

As if there was ever anything for him to interrupt. 

As if Ronon hadn't been waiting for him, anyway. 

\--- 

It was late enough that his own footsteps threatened to echo back at him as he made his way down to the gym, intent, really, on doing nothing more than wearing out his body enough to go back to bed. The mission to the new Taranan homeworld wasn't slated until the afternoon; even so, he'd become accustomed to not going three days without sleep. John, he knew, tended to like even more. 

So it was a surprise to walk into the gym to find him stripped to his undershirt and working the heavy bag, all quick jabs and restrained movement. The boxing wasn't enough, even before John noticed him coming around to watch him, the intense irritation hadn't yet eased from his face. 

"Thought you'd be asleep," Ronon said, once the last punch was thrown. 

"Administrative bullshit," John confirmed, stepping back from the mildly swinging bag and visibly trying to shake off his anger. 

Ronon tried to remember if the IOA meeting was happening this week, or next. "You wanna tell me about it?"

John's smile was only a little self depreciating, and he swiped his wristband across his forehead. "If I get into it, I might not stop. Wanna spar?"

"I could be convinced." 

\--- 

It came out in fits and starts; Atlantis needed more technical and medical personnel; the IOA was dragging its feet vetting candidates, using minor discrepancies in previous staffing requisitions as an excuse. John had sent Ronon to the mat twice- and gone down himself six times- before finally moving past it. 

"It's all just diplomatic nonsense," he'd said, moments before Ronon forced him back down a seventh time, pressing his wrists into the mat. "Okay," he laughed, winded. "I'm done bitching."

He was preparing to ease back when John brought up his knees, getting his left foot hooked against Ronon's hip while grabbing his forearms. He pulled down quickly as he rolled back, and suddenly Ronon was being flipped over, landing on his back as John completed his backwards roll to come down on top of him, straddling his ribcage. 

"What the-" Ronon broke off, aware of the possibilities of having John here, like this, even as he tried to remember if he'd ever seen the move before. 

"Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu," John panted, gloating down at him. "You know what Amelia calls it?" As Ronon was too busy trying to catch his breath, he continued. Apparently, it's a Gustavo Dantas De La Riva Sweep."

Ronon shook his head, catching his breath. "When did she-"

"When you were out recovering from your dislocated shoulder."

"That was weeks ago."

"Might've needed some practice," John shrugged, but his eyes were going dark and intent; Ronon wasn't the only one reacting to this. He was very nearly expecting it when John slid back to grind down against him, but his eyes stuttered shut anyway.

 _Fuck_ , that was good. He brought his hips up, chasing the friction. 

"Nice move," Ronon allowed, and John could take that however he wanted, but he wasn't going to take the win. The sweep _had_ been surprising, but it had the major flaw of leaving the attacker unprotected. Ronon opened his eyes grinned wide, enough that John's eyes widened fractionally as he realized how momentary his victory truly was. 

Ronon caught his elbow and braced his feet against the floor, and in a move that wasn't dissimilar from John's, forced himself into a backwards somersault sending John toppling over him. A quick push of his elbow spun John around as he landed mostly on his side, and Ronon followed to pin him there. 

He lowered himself down over John's back, pressing him into the mat carefully until John's ass was pressing Ronon's cock back against himself, and the friction was _so_ damned good. Sheppard's hairline was damp with sweat, the back of his neck burning against Ronon's mouth. Teeth grazing skin, he tasted salt. 

Leaning back, Ronon smirked a bit. "Guess what they call _that_ move."

John had been holding his breath; most people did when bracing for impact. He let it out with a sigh as the fight finally left his muscles. 

"I'm not really caring about the _name_ , here, buddy." He pushed himself back up against him, the twist of his hips.

"Oh, so _now_ you don't feel like talking."

"Damned right." His laugh reverberated through Ronon's chest as across the room, the gym door slid shut. "Shut up and fuck me." 

"Got any slick?"

"Overshirt. Bench."

Ronon got up reluctantly. "You don't usually carry slick on you."

"Went by your room a little after three. You were asleep."

The bench was far enough away that the sweat had started cooling on his skin before he'd made it back, but John had already yanked his shirt off, all messed-up hair and warm skin and BDU's getting shoved to his ankles. He was cursing at the drawstring of Ronon's pants as he fought them down, and his warm mouth against Ronon's cock was nearly enough to send him crashing to a kneel.

Maneuvering was awkward, this time around, but eventually John was on his knees, one hand braced against Ronon's thigh, thumb rubbing circles on the inside of his hip as he sucked him. His other hand came up to stroke in counterpoint, almost as good as his tongue and he was tempted to close his eyes, shut everything out except the _feeling_ of him, but the packet of lube was in his hand, the plastic corners sharp and cutting into his palm, and he couldn't see John's face, not like this. 

After tearing the tab off, he trailed the hand he wasn't using for balance slowly down over over John's back, dragging the corner of the plastic against the knobs of his spine, rubbing the sharpness away with his thumb. John took him deep the moment he reached the base of the spine, letting out what might've been a growl- it was hard to hear, muffled like that, but the vibration shot through him like a flash. 

His fingers brushed over John's ass as John spread his legs, and it took _far_ too much concentration to spill the slick where it needed to be, though once it was empty and tossed aside, and John was squirming against the cold, his hand was free to feel and roam and brush and give John something entirely different to squirm about. 

The pads of his fingers _just_ hooked into John like this, pulling just enough, pressing just enough that he could sweep the some of the slick inside of him, but it wouldn't be enough. 

John eased up off of him, his fist moving fast to cover where his mouth had been, keeping the pace up as he knelt up, catching himself on Ronon's shoulder and yanking accidentally- painfully- on a dreadlock rooted just behind his ear as they kissed, wet-mouthed and open and hard and fast. 

Ronon stroked his hand down John's side as he moved around him, trailing it under his stomach to brush against the side of his cock, and John's entire body jerked at the contact as he groaned, mouth closed, always so damned quiet. 

John's knees spread wider as Ronon knelt between them, yanking the BDUs off completely, and he leaned back to grind wetly against him, and it could've been enough, like this, rocking against him, but it could've been more. Ronon eased his thumb inside- just barely, his fingers splaying out below to brush against the taut heat of John's balls, the base of his cock, a counterpoint as he worked him open. 

Some nights, they'd do this for hours, until John was twitching on the mattress, leaking all over the sheets and his belly, so far beyond sound that the waves outside the windows had seemed deafening. 

This wasn't one of those nights. John had dropped his head to rest on his shoulders, started stroking himself when he felt Ronon's cock waiting heavily against his entrance. 

"You good?" 

"Could be better," John managed. 

The first slide was slow, _impossibly_ tight, and Ronon had to reposition himself twice to find the right angle, but John was pressing back against him, opening up and _taking_ him completely. Ronon kept it slow- he _liked_ it slow, sometimes, but it wasn't a need anymore, wasn't one of nights when this was new, when he'd still been convincing himself it was even happening- until John started moving back against him, pushing himself back up on his hands for leverage. 

Thrusting faster now, his hands wrapped around the astoundingly narrow span of John's hips, pulling back and up tightly, he pounded into him until John's head went down again, burying his jagged breath in his arms, until he was suddenly _far_ too close to the edge and had to _stop_. 

Just for a moment, inside as deep as he could go, Ronon just breathed.

John's frustrated groan wasn't surprising. "Come on," he pressed back against him, but there was nowhere for him to go. 

One final breath, and Ronon eased back, pulling John's hips until he got the message and followed. Splayed back, his knees bracketing Ronon's, he gasped, taking him impossibly deeper. 

"Come _on_ ," he said again, his voice rough and low as he found his balance. "We gotta-"

"It's four in the morning." It was an estimate at best, muttered against John's neck, nipping again at the hot sweat-slick skin behind his ear as a strange lassitude swept over him. "Nobody's gotta do anything." 

It struck Ronon that there were at least two dozen ways John could break his hold, if he'd been in any sort of mind to do so, but there wasn't any need to worry about defenses, now. This had become an entirely different kind of sparring, burning off _need_ , not energy. 

John's need was as plain as his own, his cock jumping again to full hardness when Ronon's fingers wrapped around it, his strokes deliberately lazy, and John began rocking back against him, grinding, hips jerking.

He could feel every twitch of John's muscles like this, though, deep inside him, in a way he never could when they were racing for completion.

They fucked _slowly_ now, Ronon quieting his movements whenever John goaded him into speed, stroking him softly enough that John was able to turn his head, capture his mouth without breaking the new rhythm they'd found. 

John's hand was fisted in his hair, pulling him into a better position as they kissed, and Ronon tightened the grip of his stroke- just a fraction- in return, and John was jerking back against him, his breath caught in his throat as he began to come. His muscles clenched so damned _sweetly_ as Ronon moved inside him, fucking him through it all, that when the wave came crashing over him, drowning out the silence, there was no fighting it. 

\--- 

John dozed, leaning back against Ronon, dangerously close to falling asleep on the middle of the gym floor, but there was something sharp digging into skin of his back. He rolled his shoulders, trying to dislodge it, but it stuck to his skin. 

"What?" Ronon didn't sound any more awake than John felt. 

"Your damned necklace," he muttered, further explanation escaping him. 

Behind him, Ronon shifted. A moment later, the necklace- it was awful, honestly, when examined this closely- was being held in front of his face, and he took it gingerly. He didn't particularly want to hang onto it, but his shirt- all the way over _there_ , when he found the wherewithal to move- had pockets. 

"I'll get it back to you later."

"You'd better," Ronon mumbled, nodding his head tiredly against John's own.


End file.
